


scar tissue

by petalloso



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Communication, Domestic, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fluff and Angst, Healing, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stanley Uris Lives, is richie famous enough to have met chris evans we'll never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalloso/pseuds/petalloso
Summary: “I wrote about you in my diary. I mean it was only like a page – Dear Diary, today Eddie told me to go fuck myself in the sandbox and stole my tiny eight year old heart. He’s so freaking cute. When I’m old I’m gonna take him to prom. Too much?”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 28
Kudos: 205





	scar tissue

**Author's Note:**

> the general mood/theme of this is sort of based on a 911 call/event that i made/experienced a few months ago, so it’s a little dear to my heart (i also check people’s breathing when they sleep. because i am a tad creepy and real paranoid, and some of the dialogue is what i WISH i had the guts to say to someone oof) 
> 
> disclaimers: stan and eddie live and i can’t tell you why! eddie is a little more put together than i actually imagine he would be. he’s so sturdy i love him. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: thoughts on death (mentions of suicide though only VERY hypothetically), blood/injury, surgical procedures, scar tissue, nightmares, recreational drinking/smoking(ish)
> 
> i’m @petalloso.tumblr.com if you have any q’s. thank you for reading! x

So he might be obsessed with death. 

He didn’t want to die. Not after two near misses. He wouldn’t kill himself either. Though it wouldn’t be totally off brand. His last featured headline had speculated on a possible heroin addiction and creative troubles, which was only three fourths right and somewhat outdated. 

The 911 call is still in his recents. 2:39 pm and four minutes long. He remembers the way she’d just asked him the same fucking questions as though he hadn’t already answered them. My best friend is dying. Richard. My name is Richard. Richie. Whatever. My friend is bleeding out. He’s been skewered. Shish-kebabed. He should be dead but turtle magic. He’s literally the love of my life. We’re driving him to the hospital. Yes we did hijack a car. Please send help. 

Or something. 

God. He hadn’t cried like that since the first grade when his carnival goldfish died. Back when death was a fresher concept and his tiny brain couldn’t yet comprehend it. It had been the blubbery sort of crying, almost comical in its severity, complete with fat tears and hyperventilation and the feeling like someone was squeezing to make juice of his insides. 

So maybe they had to sedate him. Eddie never had to know. Anyway he hardly remembered that part himself. 

And now sometimes he is taking a stroll, and he thinks every walking neighbor might pull a knife, stab him in the gut, and then yeet. Or that every passing car might veer onto the sidewalk and run him over like an NPC in grand theft auto. He finds a spider in his shower and it takes him twenty five minutes to calm himself down, and then only after calling Stanley to have a panic attack over the phone about it. No, Rich. The clown was fucking with you. I am alive and not in fact a decapitated head with spider legs trying to eat your face off. Yeah. Love you, too. Call me tomorrow. 

He watches youtube videos on how to perform cpr and practices the movement on a pillow, ah ah ah ah stayin’ alive playing in the background so he keeps the beat. He learns how to tie a tourniquet and practices on his own arm, using his teeth to tighten the knot, spends ten minutes trying to undo it with one hand until he decides to just use scissors. 

He has nightmares. Like everything else his head manifests they aren’t very original. They almost always involve some nightmare version of Eddie dying and nightmare version of Richie having a cry about it. He wakes up and his sheets are drenched in sweat, so he tosses them into the washer and starts his day at 3 or 4 or 5 in the morning. He avoids his reflection in the mirror. 

It’s one of those mornings now. He is with a blanket over his shoulders like a cape, eating frozen juice concentrate with a spoon, when Eddie calls him. He hits accept and leans the phone against a dirty bowl on the counter. The angle does him no favors. Christ, he needs to shave and maybe take a sleeping pill. But it’s 6 in the morning so maybe he’ll get a pass. 

“Hey, so. I just got my last stitches out.” 

He’s walking outside, and because it’s New York it’s loud enough so he’s sort of yelling into the phone for Richie to hear him. He’s a little breathy, too, cheeks pink and wearing a scarf. A scarf. Richie wants to tug at it through the virtual screen. Maybe pull him through and warm his cheeks. Wait. 

“Apparently stitches are more expensive than staples, since it takes more time to suture and it heals a lot better. But you should see my fucking hospital bill. It’s ridiculous _and_ I have good insurance.” 

“I mean– it was like eighty something stitches.” 

Also surgery to fix a collapsed lung, remove a spleen, and repair his chest cavity. Enough blood to feed a vampire for a few years at least. Three weeks of hospital stay and other miscellaneous necessities. Thank god for turtle magic or they’d be paying for a funeral instead. Richie’s mouth feels dry so he eats another spoonful. 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

“How are you feeling otherwise?” 

“Good.” 

“You’re all scruffy,” Richie says, peeking closer at the screen to get a better look. Eddie quickly blocks his camera view. 

“Hey,” Richie protests. “You forget you couldn’t lift your arms to shave for two weeks? I’ve seen worse, buddy.” 

“That doesn’t count. I’ve literally shaved every day since senior year of college.” 

“Get your hands off the screen.” 

“No.” 

“What are you embarrassed of? It’s hot.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says. But he takes his hand off the screen. “What are you eating?” 

“Um. Juice.” 

“Serious? Don’t you have an egg or something?” 

“What’s an egg?” 

“I’m going grocery shopping for you next week.” 

“Thank _god._ That’s the only reason I asked you to come visit. Who else will take painstaking care to ensure I eat a vegetable?” 

“I knew you were just exploiting my good nature.” 

“What good nature?” 

“You’re an asshole.” 

Richie laughs, and even though his chest has felt perpetually tight and achey for weeks now, he is feeling a little better for this moment. Eddie is coming to visit him. Because Richie asked. And in retrospect it shouldn’t surprise him so much. Eddie put on a show but when Richie asked something genuine he always said yes. Even as kids. Like for an ice cream. To clean his glasses because he always did it perfect. Hold his hand that one time they heard a weird sound walking home from the barrens. He always did kind of want to test his limits, but he doesn’t have the same kind of masochistic bravado he did 27ish years ago. And he couldn’t risk it now after just getting him back. 

“I’m glad you’re coming,” Richie says. “I mean it.” 

He watches Eddie soften, his porcupine bristles going flat. Anyway Richie always thought he was more like a hedgehog. 

“You don’t have pets right? I still haven’t figured out if I’m actually allergic or not.” 

“Nope.” 

Actually he’d been thinking about getting a dog. Maybe a cat. Something to take care of besides the failed mint plant by his kitchen sink. Someone years ago had once told him that his new dog had saved him from crippling depression _and_ debt. The latter Richie never did receive an explanation for. But the idea was appealing. 

“I gotta go. Call me later?” 

“Sure. Have fun at work, boss man.” 

Eddie makes an offended sound and hangs up. 

–

Richie watches a plane land on the strip and remembers the first time he’d ever taken one. Only Mike and Ben were left to say goodbye to. He remembers he’d tried to say something important but it never came out. Maybe to ask them not to forget him, but he must’ve known that was unfair, because Beverly had stopped calling and Eddie never returned his letter. He’d hugged them goodbye. And then he was gone. 

It was another of those resurfaced memories, like a dead body floating to the surface of the lake. You’re having a swim and it shocks the life out of you. They come unexpectedly and often without much remorse. They would leave his chest achey, his face hot, and it would take him a night to recoup, to fit it into place in his brain in some way it couldn’t become unwedged again. Maybe they built a dam once. Some way like that. 

He watches a man twiddle with a rose in his hand. He doesn’t know what to do with his own. He sticks them in his pocket, but that feels wrong, so he hangs them by his sides, but that feels worse, so he runs them through his hair, thinks about scheduling a haircut and then wonders if he might get anxious with scissors so close to his jugular. So maybe not. And then he pulls out his phone and checks Eddie’s flight status again. Landed. 

“Hey.” 

Richie looks up, hoping it’s not someone who recognizes him, even unshaven and sleep-deprived. The nice thing about his level of celebrity was that he could usually run errands without being stampeded like Mufasa in the grocery stores. He readies himself to politely decline a photo. But it’s just the man with the rose. And he doesn’t look interested in snapping a picture. 

“You look nervous.” 

He’s holding the rose so gently. Richie wonders what Eddie might say if when he arrived, Richie handed him a flower in exchange for his suitcase. If he would carry it as gently. It’s a stupid thought so he crushes it with an imaginary foot, petals crushed flat and sad to the pavement. He nods to the man and points to his flower. 

“Who’s the rose for?” 

“My wife,” the man says with a cheeky smile. “She’s been away.” 

Richie nods again. He doesn’t know what else to say. The man tilts his head at him. “No rose from you?” 

“It’s not like that,” Richie says. But his hands do feel empty and the rose is beautiful. Maybe he could pay the man a dollar for it. But it looked like it was worth more than that. The man hums and turns away. Richie stares at the rose, and then back down at his phone, waiting. 

The travelers begin to arrive. Richie watches out of the corner of his eye as the man spots his wife, the way he bounces on his feet, carefully hands her the rose. She smiles before she says anything, and holds it in her hand when she wraps her arms around him, and says something into his ear. Richie looks away. 

Eddie is one of the last to come through arrivals. Richie’s heart pumps wildly in his chest, like he’s regressed several decades and was once again a lovelorn teenager at just the sight of him. His hair is ruffled from the travel, there’s a little grey beneath his eyes, and he looks annoyed before he spots Richie and smiles sweet. 

Richie closes the distance between them. He feels something slip back into place that he hadn’t even noticed was out. Like reverse jenga or some shit. Eddie looks happy to see him. Richie gets kind of giddy with it. 

“You look like shit,” he says. Naturally. He’d hoped for something a little more heartfelt but fuck it. Improv. Eddie frowns. 

“Asshole,” he says. It sounds sort of like how someone would say sweetheart. Or maybe Richie is projecting. “I’m never flying that airline again. They make you pay for water, Richie. Water!” 

“That’s disgusting. Downright sickening!” 

“I fucking know,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs and Eddie looks at him and laughs, too. And then Eddie throws his arms around his neck and pulls him close. And Richie breathes in the scent of his expensive shampoo, closes his eyes and squeezes him tighter. 

“Missed you,” he mumbles into Eddie’s shoulder. Maybe Eddie doesn’t hear him. But he holds him for a little longer. When he finally pulls away his hands rest on Richie’s arms. His cheeks are flushed. Richie feels like a kid again, his fingers twitching to pinch and pinken them a little bit more. He restrains himself because he doesn’t want to lose a hand. 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie says. “What’s good to eat here?” 

“You’re in LA now, baby. What the hell isn’t?” 

–

Richie drives them to mexican. It takes them the better part of an hour and some road rage on Eddie’s part, some hypervigilant driving on Richie’s. He hates traffic and at this time of day even more so. Oddly Eddie’s insistence to roll down the windows and bark creative insults at people eases his anxious soul. He keeps the windows rolled down the entire way. 

Eddie orders a chicken quesadilla that he devours at an uncharacteristically alarming pace. And then he orders seconds and also a beer even though he doesn’t like the taste. He was more a gin and tonic type. Or gin and prune juice. He said it was good for the gut. 

“So,” Eddie starts, unwrapping his burrito with delicate care. “How’s work?” 

“You’re gonna ask me about work right now?” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“I dunno,” Richie says. “It just seems irrelevant.” 

“To what?” 

“To everything.” 

“I just want to know how you’re doing, Richie. That’s not irrelevant.” 

“Okay,” Richie says. “Work is good. I’m writing my own material now. Steve is being weirdly nice to me. He’s working on getting an interview. Rebrand or whatever.” 

“You were always funnier than that shit they were giving you.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Why are you being so dismissive about it?” 

“I don’t really wanna talk about my job, Eds. It doesn’t feel especially important when you’re still recovering from getting shish-kabobed by a murderous alien clown.” 

“Christ,” Eddie says. “That’s one way to put it.” 

“Sorry,” Richie says. He really means it but it lands flat like a french horn in a middle school pep band. He hadn’t meant to be so doom and gloom even though it’d been a perpetual mood for a while now. Eddie didn’t deserve that. 

Anyway Eddie doesn’t look convinced. He takes another bite of his burrito and points it at Richie in accusation, talking with his mouth full even though he scolds people for doing the same. “There’s something bothering you that you’re not going to tell me about. But okay.” 

How Eddie did that Richie would never know. Maybe he was an open book, his every emotion etched into his skin. He bled them. His mom always said he wore his heart on his sleeve. But Eddie was the only one that ever bothered to drag him by the same sleeve, to a place where they could watch the fireflies and itch from the grass and pretend they never had to leave. 

But that was a long time ago. Richie picks up a piece of beef that has fallen out of the burrito and sticks it in his mouth. 

“Do you have any idea how many germs exist on public tables?” Eddie says, and smacks Richie’s hand when he tries to reach for another fallen comrade. “Stop it. Just have a bite.” 

“I’m good,” Richie says. “You know. I’m glad you have the appetite of a stoned frat boy right now. You looked like a twig in the hospital. Now you’re more like a healthy branch.” 

“Thanks,” Eddie says. He means it sarcastically but he’s smiling. Richie pokes at his cheek and is entirely unoffended when Eddie swats him away. 

“Why do you have so many dimples?” 

“I have the same amount of dimples as I do kidneys.” 

“Did you lose a fucking kidney? I thought it was just the spleen?!” 

“No, god. I have two dimples.” 

“Why would you say–” 

“I don’t know.” 

Riveting. Absolutely nonsensical. Richie is thoroughly confuzzled. He calls for the check and fights Eddie for it, one hand on his face to keep him at a distance. Eddie stops struggling after a bit. 

“Richie.” 

“What.” 

“You wrote the tip amount in the wrong section.” 

“What?” 

Eddie snatches the receipt. “Look. It says total amount six dollars.” 

For a chicken quesadilla, two burritos, three beers, and a side of nachos that was a steal. 

“Fuck.” 

“Just scribble it out or something.” 

“It’s already barely legible.” 

“Gimme the pen.” 

“That’s identity fraud.” 

“Give it here.” 

“So bossy. Fine, fine. Ouch. Stop pulling my hair. Hey!” 

–

“It’s– emptier than I thought.” 

Richie tosses his keys onto the sofa and takes Eddie’s suitcase from him. 

“Just because I’m worth billions doesn’t mean I live like it.” 

Actually his house was enormous and not in a fun adventurous way. He sort of hated the open space. It made it too easy to feel alone and he hadn’t been a stranger to the feeling to begin with. 

“Your net worth isn’t that high.” 

He tries not to think about Eddie googling his net worth. 

“Well. Lemmi show you the guest room and you can. Rest or something. Are you gonna be hungry later?” 

“Probably not.” 

“Cool.” 

He doesn’t know why this is awkward. It was Eddie for fuck’s sake. Why does he feel like an exposed bloody pulp? Suddenly the bareness of his house is worse than ever, and he wishes he had more to show of himself than a dying mint plant, some abstract paintings he convinced himself to buy when he first moved, and a tv that was too big for someone who didn’t know a single thing about football. 

He takes Eddie to the guest room and rolls his suitcase by the bed. 

“I’m gonna go shower. My room’s just down the hall. If you need anything.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says. 

So he takes a shower. And he means to go check on Eddie and maybe dick around in his room for a little but for some fucking reason he can’t bring himself to walk down the hall. So he sits on his own bed instead. With his laptop in his lap. And he stares at a blank google doc waiting for inspiration to strike.

He types out a few words. 

_A step by step guide to getting over your best friend (romantically/almost dying)_

  * _Kill demonic alien clown_


  * Stop his (best friend not killer clown) bleeding with your only good shirt 


  * Go home 


  * ?? 



Not good. His eyes ache in their sockets. He needs a drink but he told himself he would stop drinking alone after Derry Part 2: Reunion. He types out a few more words and then changes to font to size 8 and the color yellow. Ha. Practically illegible now. 

“Hey.” 

Richie makes an embarrassing sound and slams the laptop shut. 

“Jesus, Eddie. I almost just pooped my pants.” 

“Gross.” 

“What is it?” 

Eddie looks sheepish. It’s a weird look for him. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and sleeping shorts. Hu. Richie sort of imagined he slept in either a silk robe or nothing. This was just as good. He needs to stop. 

“Can I um. Sleep in here?” 

“Uh. Willingly?” 

“Yes, willingly. Don’t make it a thing. I’m just– the time difference is fucking with me.” 

“Okay,” Richie says. It wasn’t much of an explanation. But Richie didn’t really care why Eddie had asked anyway. They slept in the same bed as kids all the time, back when Eddie’s mom was still sane enough to let him over. After too when Eddie would just sneak out anyway. They hardly fit comfortably by the start of high school, and maybe Richie knew most people had graduated from sleeping in the same bed as their friends by then. But they never mentioned it. So when it was cold in the winters Richie would wrap himself around Eddie for warmth. And when it was too hot in the summers they would just kick the blankets off instead. 

“Get over here, Eds.” 

Eddie shuffles over, settles underneath the comforter, says something into the pillow that Richie can’t make out. He almost asks him to repeat himself but decides against it. He opens up his laptop again and quickly deletes what he’s written. And then looks back down at Eddie. 

“The keyboard okay?” 

“Fine,” Eddie mumbles. “Keep working.” 

He tries to. But he never really managed a good start and Eddie asleep next to him is distracting. He doesn’t want to be Edward Cullen creepy but it’s hard to look away once he catches a glimpse of the little curl on his forehead because his hair gets a little wavy when he actually lets it grow out, how freakishly long his lashes are, how the worried lines of his face disappear when he’s like this. 

He wonders if Eddie has nightmares. Probably but he looked so freaking peaceful here. Richie checks his breathing with the back of his hand. And then he gently closes his laptop, places it away, and settles in to sleep. He hasn’t brushed his teeth yet but he’s afraid he might wake Eddie if he gets up now. So he closes his eyes. 

Eddie looks like someone took a chest-sized cookie cutter to his chest. Richie is screaming for help but he’s lost his voice so it’s just a high pitched whine. Anyway no one can hear him. They already left. He feels their claw marks at his shoulders, begging hands trying to bring him with them but he couldn’t. He needed to stay down here with Eddie. It was too fucking dark. Christ, there’s so much blood. He’s going to drown in it. He feels it hot and iron in his throat.

“Eddie,” Richie says. “Eds, c’mon. You gotta get up. Hold on to me.” 

“Richie.” 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He feels apocalyptic. Something is wrong with Eddie’s eyes. They shouldn’t be so completely blank. Something is wrong with the air. It shouldn’t taste like death. “You’ve gotta keep your eyes open.” 

“Richie, c’mon.” 

Someone is shaking his shoulder. He thought they left. Did someone come back? Maybe he’s losing his mind. He shakes them off and clings to Eddie. He pats his cheek but Eddie doesn’t flinch. He should flinch. 

“Get the fuck off me! Get off. I’m not leaving him. I’m not leaving.” 

“Richie, please please c’mon wake up.” 

Someone wrenches him backwards. He scrambles for Eddie. For his body. Because he’s fucking dead. But his fingers slip away because they’re covered in blood. He falls backwards. Lands so hard the wind gets knocked out of him. He opens his eyes. 

Eddie is hovering over him. His eyes are like they should be. Worried. His lips are chapped. He’s saying something but Richie can’t hear it yet. He should tell him to drink water but he can’t talk because his throat feels like something clawed it open. He is holding his breath. 

A dream. Richie puts a hand to Eddie’s chest and Eddie puts a hand over it. He can feel his heart beating steady, opposite to the jackrabbit pace of his own. The sheets are damp underneath him and he feels sticky with sweat. At length he moves to get out of bed, for fresh sheets and a glass of water for Eddie he might steal after. 

“Where are you going?” Eddie says, and when Richie looks back Eddie has a hold of his wrist, fingers wrapped gently around it. His fingertips meet at the other side, like when they were kids, skinny wrists and lanky bodies. Eddie’s hands are still smaller than Richie’s but maybe they’re not as small as he thought. They’ve grown after all. 

“The sheets.” 

Eddie tugs at his wrist, guiding him back down. And Richie follows because he doesn’t have the energy to fight it. He lays down. His feet are sweaty and his head aches and he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to lay here and stare at the ceiling and listen to Eddie breathe forever. That was the only way to make sure. 

“I don’t care about the sheets,” Eddie says. “What were you dreaming about?” 

Richie lets out a shuddery laugh. “Take a wild guess.” 

Eddie hums and takes Richie’s hands. He studies it carefully even in the dark, tracing the lines of his palm, each bump of his knuckles, pressing the pads of his fingers. He touches like he has it memorized. Maybe he does. He read his palm once in middle school. Jokingly. Four kids, die at 103, short heart line so he fell easy. Except he only ever fell for one person. Eddie laces his own fingers through and rests their hands on his chest. “Tell me about it?” 

“It’s always you,” Richie says. 

“Okay.” 

“I mean. It starts with all of us. But by the end it’s just you.”

“And then what?” 

“And then you know what.” 

“You’re not going to say it?” 

“Fuck, Eds. You really want me to? You die. Every fucking time.” 

“There are worse things than dying.” But he says it softly. Because he knows for Richie it wasn’t true. 

“Not for me.” Not if it was you. 

“I wish,” Eddie starts, and then breathes heavy. “I wish I could help you sleep again. Like when we were kids. All I had to do was tug at your hair a little.” 

“I remember.” 

“If it makes you feel any better I can’t use knives anymore.” 

“Butter knives, too?” 

“Next steak I eat will be with a fork only. And when I first went home it took me three days and debilitating pain to finally take the medication they gave me after my surgery.”

“Jesus, why?” 

“Because I realized I never needed the pills I’d been taking to begin with. Gazebos, remember? And I was paranoid that I still didn’t and it was somehow still in my head. I would forget that I didn’t actually have asthma and I wasn’t actually allergic to every kind of nut, and I would be a pill junkie for the rest of my life.” 

“You need therapy.” 

“I’m _in_ therapy. _You_ need therapy.” 

“How am I supposed to tell a licensed psychologist I can’t sleep because I killed an alien clown that tried to kill us first but I forgot about it for 27 years and now I’m dealing with an onslaught of repressed memories?” 

“Make it into a metaphor.” 

“Eh.” 

“Anyway,” Eddie says. “I think the only reason I’m not more fucked up by it than I already am is because I don’t remember the actual. Almost dying part.” 

“You don’t?”

“I’m still working on it. All I’ve got right now is before and then hospital.” 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“Yeah, well. If I suddenly become inconsolable now you’ll know why.” 

Christ. Was it fucked up that Richie wanted to kiss him right now? His hair was stuck to his forehead in sweat, heart like he’d just ran a half marathon, the taste of death in his mouth, and he just wanted to kiss him. Make sure he was alive and this was actually real. Because oh the absolute comedy if he was still stuck in the deadlights. How he would go mad if that were true. But no. This Eddie was real. No evil magic orb light from another dimension could get the details of him right like this. How he was soft and hard at the same time. How he looks at Richie in that exasperated why, like he was the only person who could make him laugh. Richie knew that at least. He wasn’t so self loathing as to deny himself at least that. 

Maybe Eddie knows. Maybe he recognizes how Richie must be looking at him. Maybe he wants it, too. Or maybe Richie always had an active imagination. That’s what they told him anyway. Too much to handle. Can’t sit still. Distracting and loud and needs to be medicated. Eddie the only one who could give it back as good as he got it. The only one who could ever keep up. He doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know anything except that he’s afraid but less afraid when Eddie is next to him. So maybe it’s a shadow and Eddie doesn’t lick his lips like that. Maybe he’s not looking at Richie back. 

“You should sleep.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, okay.” 

–

In the morning he finds Eddie in the kitchen cooking breakfast. He is also singing along to something Ed Sheeran. The song itself is catchy but frankly Eddie makes it sound atrocious and in the best possible way. Richie grins, sits himself on the counter, and puts his head in his hands, watching Eddie bop his head and shift his hips to the beat. He’s off rhythm. It’s awesome. He also hasn’t seen Richie come in yet. Even better. 

“I’m so sorry, Eds. But your career is never taking off. You just don’t have the sex appeal.” 

Eddie makes a sound like an offended bird. Maybe Richie imagines the embarrassed flush to his cheeks when he turns to him. It could just be heat from the stove. 

“You are such an asshole.” 

“You know I’m kidding. You have great sex appeal. It’s just that you sound like– remember the one Stan bird that makes the mating call like–” 

Eddie points the spatula at him. “Another word and you never see daylight again.” 

“You would never.” 

“You don’t know me.” 

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.” 

“Yeah. Whatever. Don’t make fun.” 

“You have the voice of an angel.” 

“Shut up. How’d you sleep?” 

“Better,” Richie says, leaves it at that. “Watcha making?” 

“Toast. Except on the stove because you don’t have a toaster.” 

Oh, yeah. That was because he never had enough friends to warrant a housewarming party. And he never thought it was important enough to go buy a toaster himself. He could eat limp bread. Made no difference to him. 

“Also your fridge is a modern tragedy. All you have are pickles and please tell me you haven’t had any of that wine recently. It’s rotten.” 

To be fair he was entirely capable of buying himself groceries. In fact he was also a fairly decent cook. This thing of his to discontinue all adult responsibilities beyond showering and doing his dishes had manifested post It chapter 2: battle against the big bad bully and also childhood trauma. He’d gone through the occasional bouts of irregular eating habits and disgusting hygenic practices throughout adulthood. What adult didn’t? But mostly you couldn’t survive off microwavable dinners past college. And the scruffy hobo look wasn’t hot anymore once you hit 30. So he could cook a decent meal. And he knew not to wash something red with the whites. Anyway. 

“Wine doesn’t rot,” Richie says. “It ages.” 

“That’s not even true.” 

“And you don’t _even_ like wine.” 

“I still know when it’s gone rancid. I’m taking you shopping with me.” 

“What like a date?” 

“Sure but we go dutch. I’m not staying with you a week and letting you buy all the groceries.” 

“Oh,” Richie says, feeling very quite like someone who just got sucker-punched but was definitely asking for it. “Okay.” 

–

Richie tosses his grocery haul into the basket. Eddie has everything all arranged in a way so that the softer things don’t get smooshed by the heavier things, so he doubles back and rearranges them carefully. And when he looks up Eddie is giving him a weird look. He looks back down at the item in his hand. 

“Mayonnaise is vegan, right?” 

“Okay, first of all. Everyone knows that mayonnaise is made with eggs. Second of all, I’m not vegan.” 

“But you _look_ vegan.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“I dunno. Tight bod. The whole I woke up like this. Don’t you have that vegan sweater?” 

“What vegan sweater?” 

“The one you wore after you got out of the hospital? You couldn’t get it over your head so I helped you out?” 

“That was from the hospital lost and found, Richie. It was _vegas_. Like Nevada.” 

“I never learned how to read.” 

“And I literally had creamer with my coffee this morning.” 

“Touche.” 

“Anyway you can leave the mayonnaise. I was looking at that huge bag of kettle corn.” 

“What about it?” 

“Can you also grab the white cheddar kind?” 

Oh. Oh! Derry reunion Eddie would never dare eat white cheddar popcorn. The sodium! The trans fat! This was character development and Richie was an enabler. 

“Sure thing, spaghetti,” Richie says with a wink, and leaves to go get that. 

He loses Eddie though. He searches the aisles for a good fifteen minutes. He is almost tempted to have the front make a store announcement. Like his mom once had to do when he lost track of time throwing wet sods of tissue paper onto the bathroom ceiling of the supermarket. He takes one more lap around the store. 

“There you are!” Richie says, two arms in the air just for the drama of it. “I didn’t realize you’d run off like a kid at disneyland when I took you to the grocery store.” 

“Smell this.” Eddie shoves a candle directly into his face and Richie takes a complying sniff. 

“Smells like vacation of something, I dunno. It’s nice.” 

“So that’s a no.” Eddie recaps the candle and places it back onto the shelf. 

“I just said it was nice,” Richie points out. He is still holding the bag of white cheddar popcorn so he puts it into the basket and gives it a loving pat. 

“Yeah but you don’t _love_ it.” 

“I love your mom and God. Not candles, Eds.” 

“Help me pick one.” 

“I just– okay.” 

Richie bends down to pick out a candle from the shelf beneath Eddie. Sandalwood tobacco. He takes a sniff, recaps it, and sets it back on the shelf. He looks up at Eddie. He looks intent, pink at the cheekbones. When he was a kid his whole face would turn cherry tomato. Richie’s next pick is snickerdoodle. Too sweet. He pretends to look for a little while but he’s mostly just waiting for Eddie to find something he likes. He sticks it in Richie’s face. 

“Smells like Chris Evans.” 

“Wait you haven’t met Chris Evans right? You’re not that famous?” 

“Smells like America.” 

“Oh my god.” 

He likes arguing with Eddie over soap brands and candle scents, and he likes hearing Eddie talk him through the chemistry of facial cleansers, spending twenty minutes in the aisle before settling on one brand. Eddie buys wine because the bottle is pretty. He steals Jordan almonds from the bulk section like a fiend, and complains when Richie makes fun of him for it but shares his stolen goods anyway. Richie makes a point to chew next to his ear. Eddie tugs at his hair in retaliation. 

Because Eddie brings his own reusable bags the cashier gives him a bean to pay forward. Eddie drops it into the donation jar for a community food pantry. And they go home. Richie laughs when Eddie drops a bag onto the floor and whines about the bruised pears. And then he cuts one up and shares half of it with Eddie, on the sofa with a glass of cheap wine, fingers sticky with it. 

–

He isn’t drunk, per se. Maybe a little tipsy. He forgot how his tolerance changes when he doesn’t drink for a few weeks. Eddie looks about the same though, so he doesn’t feel too embarrassed about the way his face is hot and his tongue is loose. But he sips at his next drink. Eddie had taken so long to mix it. He wanted the proportions just right. Salt around the rim and a lime and everything. 

Eddie’s got his feet on the coffee table. It’s terribly out of character and Richie is distracted by it. He wants to ask him to take them off, not because he cares but because he wants them in his lap instead, where he can put his hands on Eddie’s ankles, like he did when they were kids. Move his fingers up to his calves where he knows Eddie is ticklish just to make him mad about it. 

“Rain or snow?” 

“Snow. Morning or night?” 

“Morning. Abs or butts?” 

“Uh, butts?” 

“Goodie for me.” 

“What?”

“What?” 

“Ugh. This is dumb, Richie. I already know all your answers.” 

“Yeah, my kid answers. It’s been a couple decades. Maybe I’ve changed.” 

“Not _fundamentally._ Wasn’t that how It fucked with us so hard to begin with? We just couldn’t get over our fucking childhood trauma.” 

“I didn’t have any childhood trauma, Eddie.” 

“Yeah, your parents were swell.” 

“Besides, you make it seem like it should have been easy. Your mom was a piece of work, Eds. Even if you hadn’t been men-in-black mind wiped, it doesn’t take a few overpriced therapy sessions to just get over that.” 

“Richie–” 

“Serious. Okay, therapy is neat. Whatever. But don’t talk shit like you’re stupid for not getting over it. Like you’re weak for that. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re fucking super man.” 

“Richie.” 

“You know that, right?.” 

“I’m working on it, Richie. Can you ask the next question?” 

“Fine, fine. Paper or plastic?” 

“Paper,” Eddie says. “Plastic kills turtles, dude.” 

“A turtle saved your life!”

“Right? And we’re killing them. We killed a fucking evil killer clown but the Earth is still dying. What’s the point?” 

“Don’t get all nihilistic on me now, Eds.” 

“You know aerosol cans can’t be recycled? Aerosol cans! No more cheez whiz. No dry shampoo.” 

“Isn’t whipped cream aerosol? Are we killing the Earth with whipped cream?” 

“Fuck. I love whipped cream.” 

“We got some. For the pie you promised me. It’s in the fridge.” 

“Bring it here.” 

Richie stands. Maybe he is drunker than he thought. But he doesn’t feel like shit. His cheeks are so warm he sticks the can of whipped cream onto his face to cool them down. And then he returns to Eddie and hands it to him. Eddie sprays himself a dollop, straight onto his outstretched tongue. Richie sits back down. His cheeks feel hotter still. 

“You’re killing the Earth with whipped cream.” 

“I feel like shit about it. But it tastes so good.” 

“Gimme some.” 

He shouldn’t. But he does, opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out for Eddie to spray some whipped cream onto. He closes his mouth and a little comes out of the corners. He wipes it with his fingers, licks it off and revels at the grossed look on Eddie’s face. He’s got some on his nose so Richie wipes at it, sticks that in his mouth, too. It’s all a little too much really. Eddie is watching him like he’s one of his risks to analyze. He sets the whipped cream on the coffee table and leans back. 

“Myra and I are filing for divorce.” 

Jesus. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry, Eds.” 

“It’s okay actually. But thank you.” 

“I’m real sorry. I wish I wasn’t so drunk right now.” 

“Yeah. I’m kind of afraid to stand up.” 

“Here,” Richie says. “Take my hand.” 

Eddie takes it, and Richie hauls him up onto his feet, and they don’t let go of each other until they are both collapsed in bed. Neither of them make any mention that this is the second night they will be sleeping in the same room. Maybe it doesn’t need to be talked about. 

“I haven’t been this drunk since college.” 

“Me neither. I feel really fucking old right now.” 

“We _are_ middle-aged.” 

It scares the crap out of him. He tries not to think about it. His father never did like to celebrate his birthday. Richie never understood that but it makes perfect sense now. To see all the time lost, and remember how much of it you wasted. He hadn’t even known all that time what was so wrong. It was this. That Eddie wasn’t there. 

Eddie takes his shirt off in the bathroom. It’s the first time Richie has seen it since the hospital, those few glimpses in between changes, when he’d helped him to the bathroom and got way too big a glance of his vampire pale butt. It shocks him even though he wishes it didn’t. He can’t seem to look away and Eddie notices. Richie focuses on the tube of toothpaste in his hand. It takes a special kind of finesse to squeeze out an almost empty tube anyway. 

“It’s pretty gnarly,” Eddie says quietly. 

“It’s _not_ ,” Richie says. “It’s totally not. It just surprised me.” 

“Oh.” 

“Are you self conscious about them?” 

“What?” 

“You bought that special cream for them today. Do they bother you? I could shower you with affection until they don’t.” 

“I’m not bothered by them, Rich. It’s just skin for me.” 

“Then why the cream thing?” 

“It’s for scar tissue pain.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So when you were gazing at yourself in the mirror–” 

“I don’t _gaze_ at myself.” 

“You were literally just doing that. I saw it with my own two eyes.” 

“Aren’t you legally blind?” 

“This is slander.” 

“And famous? Don’t you know it has to be fake to be considered slander?” 

“Dammit.” 

Eddie laughs. 

–

They spend the next day doing nothing. His mother always told him that he used to get so easily bored when he was stuck at home. She said that space to think was a gift. That he should enjoy it while it lasted. Because soon he’d be an adult and he wouldn’t have time for nothing. He hadn’t believed her at the time. Too restless for it. But he understood it now. He’s never enjoyed doing nothing so much. Though maybe it was the company. 

Eddie convinces him to stretch with him in the morning. It hurts like shit. He promises to stretch more. They eat brunch and Eddie makes pie crust for later. They sit on the porch and talk about nothing. He peels an orange and shares every other slice with Eddie. And then makes popcorn in a brown paper bag and they toss popped kernels into each other’s mouths and mostly miss. Eddie leaves eventually to go make a work call. 

Richie sits in the living room and scrolls through his phone. Makes a couple notes of ideas and sets a reminder to call Steve in the morning. He scrolls through dogs up for adoption and changes Stanley’s contact name to Cocker Staniel and laughs quietly to himself. He sends a love you text to each of the losers. And then he gets up to water his dying mint plant. 

There’s a knock at the door that Richie doesn’t expect, so as any normal person would, he takes a butter knife from the counter with him to answer it (Eddie had left one out that morning in an attempt as exposure therapy). Through the peephole someone is pacing around on his porch, back and forth back and forth. Bending over to sniff at the potted plant on the railing. Richie swings the door open, brandishing his knife like a sword. 

“OH.” 

“AH.”

“Ah!” 

“Fuck!” 

Richie puts the knife behind his back. It’s just a kid. His hair is kind of greasy but that wasn’t a crime. He looks nice enough. Still. 

“The fuck were you pacing around for?” 

“I have anxiety, man.” 

“Oh,” Richie says. “Sorry.” 

“It’s cool. Are you okay?” 

“Fine. What’s up, kid?” 

“I’m 26. Did you not order weed?” 

“Did I– can I see it?” 

“Sure, man.” 

It’s just an eighth of flower and rolling paper. It’s under Eddie’s name. He didn’t know Eddie smoked. 

“Aren’t you that famous comedian?” 

“Uh, yeah. Want an autograph?” 

“That’s alright, man. Sorry they said all that shit about you on the news or whatever. You sure you’re okay? You look spooked. Maybe you shouldn’t be smoking.” 

A weed deliverer who adviced people to not smoke weed for the sake of their own delicate equilibrium. He was kind of sweet. In a sort of nonchalant way Richie wished he could pull off. Richie liked him. He keeps the weed and digs around the basket by the door banister for a tip. He’s got a crumpled five and a mint. He hands them both to the kid. 

“You’re probably right.” 

“Alright. Well, stay safe. Thanks for doing business.” 

“Sure. Thanks for um. Not calling the police.” 

“It’s cool.” 

Richie gently closes the door.

He feels like there is something marinating inside him, but if it went any longer it would soon begin to rot. He feels cracked open, a peach with a split pit. He had to do something or say something and soon or he might go batshit. He goes to Eddie’s room first, even though Eddie hasn’t even slept in it, and places the weed on his bed. And then, feeling quite like a zombie extra in a film, he goes to his bedroom, strips to his underwear, and lays on his bed. Corpse in a casket. He really needs to stop metaphorizing about death in his head. He stares at the ceiling. Something is really really wrong with him. Maybe he should just smoke Eddie’s weed and pay him back for it. He could remember how to roll a joint. Maybe he should go to sleep. But he has a feeling a nightmare is painted on the backs of his eyelids. The projector will turn on the moment they fall closed. 

There is a soft knock on the door. Three taps and a voice muffled behind the wood. 

“Rich?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“I’m not decent.” 

“I’ll keep my eyes closed.” 

“Okay.” 

When he comes in his arms are out so he doesn’t bump anything. 

“You can open your eyes,” Richie says. Eddie opens his eyes. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. 

“Hey.” 

“You okay?” 

“I almost attacked your weed man with the butter knife.” 

“Sorry. I texted you I was in the shower.” 

“It’s alright.” 

Eddie only hums. And then he reaches his arms to the back of his neck and pulls off his shirt in one clean movement. Richie watches him do it. He wants to take off his glasses because sometimes when things are blurry they’re less overwhelming, but he can’t look away from him. Eddie slips out of his pajama pants next. Like he’s trying to level the playing field. Like this was a game. Who could show a little more skin. Who could be the most vulnerable. He leaves his clothes a messy pile on the floor even though he usually hangs them. And then he nudges at Richie until Richie lifts himself up to a sitting position, and he sits cross legged in front of him on the bed. They touch at the knees like this. Richie could stick his fingers underneath the hem of his briefs. 

“I thought I’d give it a try,” Eddie says. “Bev said smoking helps her with anxiety sometimes.” 

“You haven’t smoked a spliff since we were kids?” 

“I was too paranoid about my lungs. Also I ran track in college.” 

“I didn’t know that. Bet you looked cute in those track shorts they make you wear. Were they red?” 

“Fuck off, man.” 

Richie laughs and then goes quiet. Eddie is looking at him in a weird way. Usually when he wanted to know something he hadn’t already figured out he just asked, but he looks nervous right now. Richie hates to think he makes Eddie nervous. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing. Just. Would you tell me what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Richie. I know you better than that.” 

Richie sighs. He picks at a fraying thread on the blanket. Eddie’s knees are pale. There’s a little scar on the side of his right knee from when Richie tripped him and he hit it on the sharp edge of a rock. He’d never felt like a bigger asshole. Had tried to bandage it up even as Eddie yelled at him that he wasn’t mad and to stop coddling and get his grimy hands away from his open wound. He wore pants even though it was the summer so his mom wouldn’t notice and keep him in. Maybe Richie had watched him pick the scab when they went swimming a week later. Maybe he’d smacked his hand away and Eddie had accused him of hypocrisy and maybe Richie had only grinned up at him. He lets out a breath. 

“What would you give me for it?” 

“I could wash your hair. Or cook you dinner. What do you want for it?” 

“Either.”

“Deal.” 

God. Richie wanted to tell him. He wanted to confess everything. But he wasn’t an eloquent person. Maybe there was a reason they never let him perform his own stuff. And he feels raw already. There’s something stuck behind his teeth. Some string of words. Pressing to get out and perch on his tongue and be spoken. 

“I don’t know how to say it exactly.” 

“However. I’m good at translating you.” 

Eddie has eyes like the full moon. His scar spreads across from his chest to his belly. 

“I think about dying,” Richie says. “Like an exhausting amount of the time. Not in a kill myself way. More like death is always looming and could strike at any moment.” 

“Well.” 

“I know, Eds. You’re basically an expert on all things that could give me a heart attack before I can tap out otherwise. Or diabetes. I dunno.” 

“That’s not–” 

“Look. I know that it’s true. We _could_ die any moment. We almost fucking did. It’s been said and written and mourned about a million times over. And it’s why people are so afraid of wasting their lives, of not getting it right. It’s why we’re so fucking desperate for connection and why we can’t stand to be alone. I’m not the only fucking one having a crisis over this. 

“But when you fall asleep I check your breathing, Eddie. And I heard on the news that one in a hundred people die in car accidents so now I don’t even know if I can get in my car again. And it would be so _easy._ To just. Stop. I’m scared for myself but worse is I’m scared for you. My heart’s like a fucking spazzed out hummingbird. I need someone to rip it out of me just to get it over with.” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll take your heart.” 

“Why? It’s all bloody and– germy. You hate that.” 

“But it’s yours so I don’t care. I wouldn’t rip it out, though. That would be so fucking messy. I would just. Be gentle. I’d take care of it.” 

“Okay,” Richie says. “It’s yours.” 

He wanted to say instead that it already was. Didn’t he know that? He had to have figured it out. 

“How long have you been like that?” 

“Dunno. Since you were gutted maybe.” 

“God. The nightmares are bad enough, Rich. Why didn’t you say anything before?” 

“I didn’t want to be a complete fucking wreck when you were already catastrophizing over needing a bedpan.” 

“Okay to be fair that was actually the worst thing that has ever happened to me.” 

“I know, god. I just couldn’t put that on you. Not while you were still healing. And then we all went home and it wasn’t relevant anymore. But now you’re here with me and I– I can’t be like your mom. Or Myra. I can’t treat you like you’re sick.” 

“You know it’s different though, right? I almost died in your arms, Rich.” 

“Sure, but–”

“Lemmi say something, yeah?” 

“Eddie, you don’t have to _console_ me–”

“Shut up, I’m not. Just lemmi– that whole healing thing you were talking about? You wanna know something kind of fucked? Sometimes I’m super grossed out by it. I mean it’s not a pretty scar. And I can’t even avoid the one on my face. I can’t run like I used to. And I have to take all these antibiotics now to make sure I don’t get an infection. And I’m already paranoid about medications so it’s kind of awful. It sucks. 

“But I’m more fascinated than disgusted. The scars remind me that I’m not delicate. I’m not how they treated me. I lost an entire organ and half the blood in my body and I’m still fucking kicking. Yeah, the turtle helped. It fucking hurt and I’m gonna be the achiest old man ever. But I’m not broken. My body can feel pain and it doesn’t mean I’m dying. I can be hurt and still heal from it. And I have other far more absurd neuroses to obsess over than how my scars look.” 

“Christ, Eddie.” 

“That was all just a really round-about way of saying that you make me feel the same way. You’re a pain in my ass but I’m better for it. And you don’t treat me like they did. You make me brave. You said it yourself in the sewers.” 

“You’re brave on your own, Eds.” 

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t jump off a cliff without taking your hand first.” 

God. Richie loved him. He was in love with him. How did he say things like that? Richie wanted to grow old with him. He wanted to push his cuticles back. Tug at the hairs on his arm just to get a rise. He wanted Eddie to tell him when it was going to rain because he knew when his arm ached. He loved him. The way he pronounced it _expecially_ even though he was a grown ass man. That he bought wine because the bottles were pretty. That he cleaned Richie’s glasses with the cotton of his shirt even though Richie could do it himself. He needed to figure a way to say it. 

“So?”

“So?” 

“Are you going to say something back?” 

“I’m just. I’ve gotta say something important. I swear I’m not blowing you off, Eds. Give me like one more second to figure this out.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“I love you?” 

“Is that a question? I love you, too. You’re my best friend.” 

“No.”

“No?

“I’minlovewithyou.” 

It comes out in a rush. An open faucet. Richie has to pick the words apart like magnetic poetry on a fridge. 

“Wait, Eds–” 

“Damnit. I know I said I’d give you a second but–” He makes a wild little gesture with his hands. “I’m in love with you. Like _in_ it in it.”

“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie says. And then he laughs. He feels kind of manic. “You just fucking one-upped me. I’m in love with _you_. Like a Shakespearean amount. Totally unplatonically in love with you.” 

“Serious?” 

“I wrote about you in my fucking diary. Are you?”

“That’s adorable.” 

“I mean it was only like a page. Something like dear diary today Eddie told me to go fuck myself in the sandbox and stole my tiny eight year old heart. He’s so fucking cute. When I’m older I’m gonna ask him to prom. Too much?” 

“No, I’m–” Eddie lets out a laugh, the kind like after you’re done crying. “Can I just. Here.” 

Eddie shifts a little. And then he puts his hands on Richie’s thighs. And he kisses Richie on the mouth. Off center. Richie pushes closer, and Eddie makes a noise that goes straight to Richie’s gut and pulls away. 

“Too much?” Eddie says softly.

“No,” Richie breathes, and presses his lips to Eddie’s open mouth. 

He tastes like his extra whitening toothpaste. But his lips still feel buttery from the popcorn. Or maybe Richie has just been hydrating Eddie like crazy the last 24 hours. He tries to get Eddie on top of him but he’s distracted by the wetness of their mouths. The way Eddie has his thumbs tucked behind Richie’s ears. The way his nose is squished against his cheekbone. How Eddie is so usually neat but he kisses messy. 

Eddie seems to get the idea eventually, because he shifts and straddles Richie, thighs bracketing his waist, and his hands are _really_ roaming now and they are literally shirtless. Richie really should have caught on to that blatant foreshadowing. It was too fucking convenient. What kind of person takes off their shirt before having a conversation? The kind that loved you back. Eddie loved him back. Eddie loved him. 

Richie pulls away but only to trail kisses to the underside of Eddie’s jaw, quick and soft and underneath his fingertips he feels Eddie shudder. 

“Wait, Eddie,” Richie stops. “You’re married.” 

“Is that a joke? Your comedic timing is kind of off.” 

“My bad.” 

“Lemmi just,” Eddie says, and he makes a little motion with his hips that has Richie astral projecting off the bed. And then he grins and does it again. Probably just to hear Richie make the same embarrassing noise. Just to fuck with him. Literally? Maybe? Geez. 

“Shit,” Eddie says. “You’re so–” 

He sounds undone. His hair is a mess and maybe Richie was being a little rough with it. He presses another softer kiss to Eddie’s mouth. 

“That’s right, Eds. Sweet-dirty talk me.” 

“That’s what I’ve been doing this entire fucking time.”

Well. It worked. 

–

“What’s this about you having a diary?” 

Richie lays with his head sideways on the pillow facing Eddie. His hands ache to touch even still so he touches. He pokes at the freckle on his earlobe. The worried lines in his forehead. He’s going to be the wrinkliest old man. His hands rest eventually in the space between them. Because he doesn’t answer immediately Eddie decides to roll on top of him, using his weight to squeeze the answer out. Richie laugh-wheezes but doesn’t push him off. Since his glasses had slipped off sometime during their hot makeout sesh/first kiss, it was better to have Eddie’s face this close anyway. So he wasn’t blurry. So he could look him in his godforsaken eyes and pour his heart out all over again. Besides, he’d just given it to him anyway. 

“That wasn’t an anecdote,” Richie says eventually. “I have this box mom left with me the last time she visited. Of all my childhood stuff. We should go through it one day. It’s like art projects and storybooks and shit.”

“You were such a fucking dramatic storyteller when we were kids.” 

“Meh. You liked listening to me talk.” 

“Fuck you, maybe I did.” 

“Oh?” He waggles his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, _oh_. Keep going.” 

“Okay, yeah. So I’ve seen this box all before. Gone through it a couple times even after I left Derry. But when I first got back here after our second fight with It, I went through it again. And you’re fucking everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous. I have your name written in my math notebooks with a heart around it. E-d-w-a-r-d-o.” 

“You can’t spell for shit.” 

“It was for comedy, Eds.”

“Right.” 

“Listen though, Eddie. What gets me is I went through all that stuff _before._ I knew your name. I think I almost called Steve by it because he reminded me of you. But I could never remember. You were right there and I forgot you.” 

“You weren’t the only one, Rich.” 

“I know. We all made promises to each other and maybe it feels like we broke them. But we still came back. It’s just crazy to think about.” 

“I thought about you, too.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I watched your dumb special. It wasn’t even funny but I still laughed. Because it was you.” 

“You’re going back to New York?” 

“Just for a little. I’m coming back.” 

“What now? I’m down for whatever you are. We stay in bed forever. Or camp in the backyard like we used to. I kind of wanna brush my teeth next to you. And help you stretch and cook you dinner. We work up to eating steak with a knife.” 

“I can make the pie. You can check my breathing whenever and I find out if I’m allergic to cats and if I actually am we can get a hamster or something. I’m gonna kiss you like crazy.” 

“Not if I do it first.” 

“This isn’t a fucking competimmmph–”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! lmk what is up dawg 
> 
> i'm @petalloso.tumblr.com (i also recently made a twitter @freidegg but it scares me a bit) 
> 
> love and health in these times <3


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